Chicago Run

CHAPTER THREE

“What’s keepin’ the lowlifes?” Hickok wondered testily, his thumbs hooked in his gunbelt. He stood on the porch outside Glisson’s Shine and Feed, his shoulders propped against the wall to the right of the batwing doors.

“Do you have an urgent appointment?” Geronimo asked from his seat on the top step. He had the FNC in his lap, and was idly watching a flight of starlings to the south.

“We all do,” the gunfighter responded. “We’ve got to find Bricks-for-Brains before he gets himself in a heap of trouble.”

From their left, where Blade leaned on a porch post, came an accurate observation. “He already is in a lot of trouble. He went AWOL.”

Hickok glanced at the giant. “Are you fixin’ to boot him from the Warriors?”

“It’s not up to me and you know it,” Blade said. “He’ll be judged by a Review Board of his peers. That’s the rule. His fate will be in their hands.”

“But you could end up sittin’ on the Board,” Hickok noted. “We all could. How will you vote if you do?”

The giant looked at his friend. “I honestly don’t know.”

“There will be some who want him thrown off,” the gunfighter commented. “I won’t be one of them.”

Geronimo snickered. “Of course you won’t. That’s because you went AWOL yourself once.”

“I had good reason.”

“Sure you did. A wet-nosed kid who worships the grass you walk on went AWOL himself and you had to go rescue him,” Geronimo said. “But two wrongs don’t make a right.”

“Which reminds me,” Hickok stated suspiciously. “When I went up before a Review Board, there was a vote to decide whether I’d still be a Warrior or not.” He paused. “As I recollect, the vote was two to one in favor of me keepin’ my position.”

“Yes. So?”

“So there were three Warriors on that board. Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, Carter, and you. One of you crumbs voted no.”

“It wasn’t me.”

“You mean to tell me that you had your chance to get me good and you blew it?”

“Our Triad wouldn’t be the same without you,” Geronimo said.

“Gee, thanks.”

“We’d miss all the humor from your juvenile antics.”

Blade laughed heartly, then stretched. He gazed along the street of the deserted settlement, wondering if he’d made the wrong decision. A settlement in the Outlands was hardly under his rightful jurisdiction.

Technically, the Home and the Freedom Federation as a whole were his only responsibilities.

Located in extreme northwestern Minnesota, the Home was a 30-acre compound established by an idealistic survivalist prior to the war. This man, Kurt Carpenter, had become known as the Founder to his followers, those he’d dubbed the Family. Surrounded by a high brick wall and a protective moat, the Home had weathered attacks by scavengers, assasins, and commandos, and even an assault by an invading army.

The Family was just one of seven factions that had formed an alliance called the Freedom Federation. The others were the Free State of California, the Flathead Indians in Montana, the rugged horsemen of the Dakota Territory who had designated themselves the Cavalry, the Moles of north-central Minnesota, refugees from the Twin Cities who’d taken the name of the Clan, and the Civilized Zone in the Midwest and Rocky Mountain region. The Federation was devoted to preserving the flickering ember of civilization in a benighted world.

And here he was, Blade reflected, pledged to defend both his cherished Family and the widespread Federation. As one of the 18 Family members selected to serve as Warriors, he’d taken an oath to safeguard the Family and the compound with his dying breath, if need be. Since his selection as the head Warrior, his duties and responsibilities had multiplied drastically.

With all the work he had to do, what had ever influenced him to also accept the post as the leader of the Federation’s elite tactical squad, the Freedom Force? Now he not only had to watch out for the Family, he also had to diligently protect Federation interests wherever he found them challenged or in danger. There could only be one answer, he wryly observed. He was a glutton for punishment.

For added proof all he had to do was take a look around him. Second Chance wasn’t part of the Federation; it existed in the vast, wild regions commonly referred to as the Outlands, those existing outside the boundaries of the organized territories. So why in the world was he ready to risk his life yet again for an isolated community, for people he didn’t even know?

The answer was simple.

If he’d learned anything during his tenure as head Warrior and with the Force, he’d grown to appreciate the necessity of preventing the hordes of raiders, scavengers, and others from wiping out those devoted souls who were trying to rebuild the world from the ground up. He’d ventured into the Outlands many a time, and on each occasion he’d been fortunate to return to his wife and son alive. But such hard experience had only confirmed his personal conviction that the hordes of darkness weren’t going to miraculously go away of their own volition. The legions of death had to be opposed at every turn and gradually eliminated. And he—

“Here they come, pard,” Hickok suddenly declared, interrupting the giant’s reverie.

Blade straightened and moved down to the street. In the distance swirled a dust cloud, and at its base moved a large group of horsemen. He unslung the Commando and glanced at his companions. “Take your posts.”

Geronimo rose and headed toward a two-story building across from Glisson’s. “Take care of yourselves,” he cautioned.

“Try not to catch any bullets with your noggin,” Hickok responded.

“I knew you cared,” Geronimo said over his shoulder, smirking impishly.

“I do,” Hickok agreed. “I hate to see you walkin’ around after a shoot-out with all those dents in your forehead.”

“Philistine.”

“Same to you,” Hickok said, watching the Blackfoot enter the building.

He looked at the giant. “What the dickens is a Philistine?”

“Never mind. Take your position,” Blade interrupted, moving back up the steps.

“See if I ever ask you a question again,” the gunfighter grumbled, walking farther east.

Surveying the interior of the store, Blade discovered a bewildering variety of second- and thirdhand merchandise: torn clothes, slightly dented pots and pans, a variety of farming supplies, steel-jawed traps, axes, knives, rifles, and much more. He peered out and made certain Hickok had entered the fourth structure down, then stood next to the left-hand jamb, where no one outside would be able to spot him, and waited. A tense minute elapsed. Then two.

Finally the pounding of many hooves echoed along the dusty street.

Loud whoops sounded, mixed with coarse curses and laughter.

The pots, pans, and other utensils rattled loudly, and Blade had to strain to hear muffled conversation. He pulled the Commando’s cocking handle all the way back, and reached behind him to ensure his spare magazines were crammed into his back pockets.

Horses snorted and whinnied as the raiders reined up directly in front of Glisson’s. Dust drifted in over and under the batwing doors.

Blade listened to someone laugh, and then a low, raspy voice spoke.

“What a dump. Anyone know the name of this place?”

“Looks like just another armpit to me, Quint,” a second man said.

“Doesn’t seem to be anyone home,” mentioned a third.

“I wonder why,” Quint said, sparking general mirth.

“Do we stop for a spell or keep going?” asked the second one.

“I figure we owe ourselves a little R and R,” Quint declared. “Let’s party till we drop and then burn this dump to the ground.”

Blade had overheard enough. He strode boldly through the batwing doors out onto the porch, and suppressed a grin at the astounded reaction of every face turned in his direction. The leading row of horses was abreast of the steps. Halting on the top step, Blade scanned the ragtag collection of motley ruffians comprising the nomadic band and pinpointed the apparent leader, a bearded rider over six and a half feet in height who wore black leather, including a leather patch over his left eye.

“What the hell!” a rider blurted out.

All eyes focused on the Warrior, and not one of them was friendly. He held the Commando at waist height, the barrel slanted downward, his finger on the trigger, and calmly returned their baleful stares.

The leader rode over to within a yard of the steps and scrutinized the giant. “Well, what have we here?”

Blade deliberately said nothing, his gaze sweeping the raiders, counting 32 all told.

“My name is Quint,” the leader said. “Who might you be?”

“I’m part of the official Second Chance welcoming committee,” Blade replied. “On behalf of the citizens of this settlement, I must ask you to ride on and forget about burning it to the ground.”

Quint cocked his head and stroked his beard. “Is that a fact? What if we don’t want to ride on?”

“Then every last one of you will die.”

Laughter broke out again, nervous laughter, and many of the men nervously hefted their weapons.

“You aim to wipe us out all by your lonesome?” Quint asked.

“No. I wouldn’t want to deprive my friends of the target practice,” Blade declared loudly.

Geronimo materialized on cue on the balcony of the building across the street. He leaned his FNC on the railing and called out, “It won’t be much of a challenge. These yo-yos didn’t leave themselves any room to maneuver.”

Twisting in the saddle, Quint stared at the Indian. “Just two of you? I don’t think we have anything to worry about.”

Strolling out a doorway farther down, Hickok smiled at the riders and stated, “I’ll take the ten nearest me.”

“Three of you?” Quint said, his right hand on his thigh inches from a holster containing an Aminex .45-caliber ACP.

“Three is all it will take,” Blade told him. “Do yourselves a favor and ride on out.”

“No one tells the Outlaws what to do,” Quint snapped, and several of his men fanned out, positioning their horses in a crescent shape around the steps.

“Maybe you’ve heard of us?” one of them said, and chuckled.

“No,” Blade responded.

“I admire a man with balls,” Quint said, still maintaining the fiction of politeness. “So here’s what I’ll do. After we drill you full of lead, I’ll see to it that you’re given a proper burial instead of leaving your carcass for the vultures and the rotten mutations. I can’t be any fairer than that.”

“Your generosity is overwhelming.”

“I’m serious. Tell me your name and I’ll even have the boys carve it into a grave marker.”

“The name is Blade.”

Quint’s sarcastic expression shifted, became immediately concerned.

“Who did you say?”

“My name is Blade,” the Warrior said, raising his voice for every rider to hear, to give them a taste of their own mocking medicine. “Maybe you’ve heard of me?”

Silence descended. The Outlaws exchanged surprised looks and fidgeted nervously.

“I’ve heard tell of a guy called Blade,” a grizzled rider mentioned. “They say he always carries two knives—” His voice broke off as he laid eyes on the Bowies.

The leader recovered his composure quickly. He leaned forward, his good eye narrowing. “I’ve heard of you too. You’re the one who licked Crusher Payne and destroyed the Union.”

“Payne wasn’t the type to listen to reason either,” Blade said.

The grizzled Outlaw coughed. “Ain’t you the same one who killed the Doktor?”

Blade nodded once. “He made a terrific pincushion.”

Whispers spread like wildfire among the band. Everyone in the Outlands was familiar with the tales told about the demise of the most feared man in postwar America, the vile madman who had created an assassin corps composed of genetically engineered hybrids. Merely referring to the infamous Doktor in the presence of children had been enough to provoke nightmares after the children fell asleep.

“What’s a man like you doing here?” Quint asked.

“That’s my business,” the Warrior said flatly.

Quint smacked his lips and folded his hands on his right thigh, letting the reins droop. “There’s no reason for you to be so hostile. What have I ever done to you?”

“Not a thing,” Blade admitted. “But how many innocent people have you killed during your career? Scores, I bet.”

A shrug indicated Quint’s dismissal of the subject. “What’s it to you?”

“Everything. It’s scum like you who are preventing the decent folks of this land from living in peace and attaining prosperity.”

At the word “scum” Quint bristled, scowling and stiffening. “No one talks to me like that and lives.”

Blade grinned, taunting Quint, and said in complete awareness of the inevitable consequences, “Hot air never scares anyone. You should leave before your big mouth gets you into a situation you’re not man enough to handle.”

Turning a livid red, the leader of the Outlaws roared his rage and clawed for his gun.